


A Wilde Thursday

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: There is a number of small things [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, POV First Person, Poetry reading, Rain, Sex, Thursday - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2465432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thursdays and Oscar Wilde collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wilde Thursday

**Author's Note:**

> I simply could not resist celebrating Oscar Wilde's birthday with some sweet smutty goodness. Theodore loves Wilde and I love Theodore, so here we are.
> 
> Endless thanks to my writing partner, friend, cohort and muse, Unkissed.
> 
> For Theodore, the sole keeper of Draco's heart and soul.

_“We shall be notes in that great Symphony_   
_Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,_   
_And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be …”_

 

It is early when the sound of his voice resonates through our bedroom, rousing me from the sleep that I so desperately needed to recuperate from the eve before. Life with Theodore Nott is anything but what you would expect, and as such, I have long-since learned to alter my habits and sleeping patterns so that I might properly feed his oft-desperate needs.

 

He is standing by the window, gazing out upon the city that is still afforded its sleep, bathed in early morning greys and looking more like an ethereal portrait of contradiction and disquiet than the man that I love.  His fingers are splayed against the dewy pane of glass that separates him from our world and that which lies beyond, with sheer curtains swaddling his bare skin in a loving embrace. I lie there watching him as the remaining vestiges of slumber leave me, and my heart is swollen because I know that I could never tire of this life that I have been granted to live.

 

“ _One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years have lost their terrors now, we shall not die, …”_

His voice is drawn out like dulcet honey and although I cannot yet see his face, I know that his eyes are closed and he is reciting from memory alone.  I cannot stop myself from smiling widely because I am so stupidly in love with this impossibly brilliant, moody and romantic man.

 

He likes to think of himself as a tortured artist, but I know better than that.

 

“The universe itself shall be our immortality.”  I finish his sentence for him because I can, but also because I understand him on a level that is not easily explained through simple language.

 

When his fingers curl against the window glass I know that he is stilling himself and trying to find his center, because there are few things that Theodore Nott enjoys more than having beautiful poetry recited for him alone.

 

“You remember…” He says so quietly that it is almost unheard, and when he drops his chin to rest upon bared chest, I smile again.

 

“Come back to bed.” Is my answer, and when I untangle myself from the twisted sheet and pull it aside, he obliges me.

 

“Today is a very special day.” He whispers as he slides into our bed and when he rests his head on a pillow and pierces me with the bluest and most brilliant gaze I’ve ever seen, I cannot help but think that every day I share with him is a special one.

 

“So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail, and all my sweetest singing out of tune.” Of course, I know precisely what he is getting at. You do not spend as much time with a man like Theodore and not learn a thing or two about what is unsaid from his lips.   

 

When he smiles it lights up my entire world, and the stain of crimson that warms his cheeks and the bridge of his nose is something I pride myself on; for I hope that it is only I who will always wield the ability to reduce him just so.

 

“We are made one with what we touch and see, with our heart’s blood each crimson sun is fair.” His words quiver somewhere between swell and desire and when his fingertips trace over my jaw, I am both living and dying, all at once.

 

When I can no longer stand it, I roll him over upon his back and cover his body with my own; every inch of us aligning in ways that the stars above can only dream of. His arms stretch up high over his head and his fingers curl around the twisted metal frame of our bed and when he looks at me, _really_ looks at me, I understand everything. 

 

Thursdays have long-since become a symbol of the bonds between us. That one day of the week where we shed ourselves completely and become something else. I understand what he needs from me, and I accept that openly.

  
But today is different.

 

Today marks the birth of a long-dead artist who means a great deal to this man beneath me, and I will say that I would be alarmingly jealous of their relationship if he were not so disintegrated in the earth below.  I’ve been listening to Oscar Wilde flow rapturously from Theodore’s lips for years, and now here we are; on a Thursday with a birthday to celebrate, and I intend to make it something he will never forget.

 

“One world was not enough, for two like me and you.” My hands cover his around the metal as I speak, as if assuring him that this is where his hands shall stay.

 

For there will be no ropes, no ties, not this day.

 

His body arches up against mine and the sigh that escapes him is breathy and delicate. I can sense his growing desire by the way he slowly nods his head in response to my unanswered question and I smile because I am already imbibed with the power that this unassuming day of the week allows me.  When my fingertips trace over the taut curve of his arms another sigh escapes him and I quiet him with a press of lips.

 

I can feel his body quivering beneath mine as we kiss and I greedily absorb everything he emits. My tongue scrapes over his teeth and slides past his own, delving deep into the warm and wet recesses of his open mouth. He tastes of stale nicotine and desperation and it instantly sends a shiver of desire straight through me. By the time we part he is panting and his eyes are squeezed shut, and I smile the faintest smile because I know that look all too well.  Every inch of this perfect man is mine for the taking, and although I’ve tasted him countless times before, I could never tire of him. He is my _Patroclus_ , my _Hephaestion_ ; we are one soul in two bodies and I will never again deny him of this knowledge so long as I am breathing; and even then, perhaps beyond.

 

I know he wants to be taken like it’s a proper Thursday but I have never been very good at following the rules, have I? So instead I bestow open-mouthed kisses upon his naked form, my fingertips pressed into his skin firmly. He is like the most succulent fruit in the garden and I am desperate for a taste. When the tip of my tongue swirls around the edge of his navel he jumps slightly because every nerve he possesses is hypersensitive by this point. I understand this power because it is usually his mercy that I am beneath. It is so easy to become drunk on him, and when I take him in my hand he bites down on his bottom lip to stifle a groan of approval. I know that my warm and purposeful breaths upon the erection in my hand are maddening; it is clear in the way he tries so hard not to squirm while still holding fast to his bondage.  I wary a glance up at him as I stroke him languidly, enjoying the way his pale skin flushes with unwieldy desire. I lean over him and reach up with my free hand to slide two fingers into his slackened mouth. He understands my intention and felates them obediently and I cannot help but marvel at how fucking sexy he makes it look. His tongue curls around my digits and his cheeks hollow prettily as he sucks them farther into his mouth and by the time I remove them I am unsure which of us is panting more.

 

Of course I would like nothing more than to wrap my mouth around the firm cock in my hand but I do not, because I want to drive him right up to the edge of the world before I shove him over and send him reeling into blackness. I part his thighs with a knee and nestle between them, my spit slick fingers tracing over the most hidden part of his body. Theodore is nothing if not a desperate thing when he wants to be and he readily obliges me, baring himself obediently, wide and free. I have to smirk at this because I know him well enough to realize that his wanton behavior is just as much for him as it is for me. He loves it all. When I breach him he arches up and this time he doesn’t quite mange to stifle the whimper of approval that escapes. I take my time with him, slowly working him open like the most delicate lock that only I possess a key for. It doesn’t take terribly long for him to grow impatient. I can see it there, just behind his carefully erected need to be dominated. I chuckle softly as I reach for a small bottle of lubricant, a quiet, closed mouth laugh that is both superior and pleased.

 

When I ease myself inside of him we both heave a raggedy sigh, and it doesn’t take very long at all to set the pace that I am striving for. His knuckles are stretched white around the metal bed frame and my fingers are curled into his delicately protruding hipbones as we move. His legs wind around my middle like spider’s webs and his entire body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. This picture of him is something that I will not soon forget, and as rain begins to descend from the sky beyond our windows and walls, I know that this will be a Thursday to be coveted for a long time to come. 

 

For every action, there is most certainly a reaction, and every time I sink myself into his pliant form I am lost on the sensation of being swallowed completely whole.

 

This is all going to end a lot sooner than either of us would like, and somewhere beyond the lust and sensation I have an overwhelming need to be somehow closer to him. I do not cease my movements as I lie over him, and although his eyes are still squeezed shut he looks immeasurably beautiful to me. When my hands cover his again he whimpers faintly and it takes him only a moment to understand my intention. His fingers thread through my hair and he arches against me and cries out my name, and as his body spasms around me I cannot help but wonder which of us is truly falling.

 

“Sweet, there is nothing left to say but this, that love is never lost.” I say this to him after a long while; after we lie there collecting our hearts and breaths and have listened to the gentle tap of rain outside our window like the sweetest symphony erected just for the two of us. The day had only just begun and already I knew that it would be a perfect one.

 

Theodore smiles lazily beneath me, his fingertips stroking aside tousled hair from my forehead. “Are you going to quote Oscar Wilde for me all day?” He lifts his brows as he speaks and I have to laugh because that would be an interesting day indeed.

 

“I’m afraid I’d never get you out of this bed if I did.” I laugh a little bit more at this statement because we both know how true it is. He seems to contemplate for a moment as if he is seriously weighing the options, and I shake my head and drop a kiss to his lips before gingerly removing myself from atop him. He grabs for his cigarette box and muggle lighter and we lie back on our pillows and blow smoke rings that hover in the air above us like ghostly halos.

 

“It’s raining anyhow, I don’t see why we _can’t_ stay in bed all day.” He drops his head to the side to grin at me and it warms me from the inside out. I am absolute shit at denying him and he knows it.

 

“Add some coffee to the mix and I just might be inclined to agree with you.” I am matching his grin with my reply and my eyes are drawn to the way his lips pucker around his cigarette, and already I feel that itch inside of me; the one that is nearly impossible to scratch.

 

“Sex, cigarette, coffee, and repeat. Sounds like the best way to spend the day.” His words are thoughtful if not slightly mischievous; as if he can’t quite believe how easy it was to get me to agree with him. As if he doesn’t know the power he holds over me. 

 

For this may be Thursday, but there will never be any denying that it is always there.

 

When my lips part again it is not without intent that I speak. “And I to nurse the barren memory, of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.”  I’m watching him as the words flow from my mouth and of course I do not miss the imperceptible shiver that shakes him.  When he banishes his cigarette and rolls closer to me I quirk a brow and when he hooks his fingers around the back of my neck and says “Screw the coffee,” I almost manage a laugh before he swallows that too, with his kiss.

 

_His little lips, more made to kiss_

_Than to cry bitterly for pain,_

_Are tremulous as brook-water is,_

_Or roses after evening rain._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> All credit for the poetry spewn forth by Draco and Theodore goes to the man himself, Oscar Wilde.


End file.
